


Atomic Turquoise and Lagoon Blue

by barbiehighheels



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M, goodbye canon, it was nice knowing u, modern!Hawke
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-29
Updated: 2016-01-16
Packaged: 2018-04-28 17:48:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5099954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/barbiehighheels/pseuds/barbiehighheels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sarah Hawke works part-time at Hot Topic and is a junior in college, majoring in pre-law. </p><p>There is no explanation for why she woke up to a frowning ginger in full-armor, holding a fucking sword.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Aveline vs Darkspawn Manic Pixie, maybe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ♫ just a modern girl ♫
> 
> ♫ li-vin in a CANON WO-OORLD ♫

Newly-appointed Captain of the Kirkwall Guard, Aveline Vallen, was wiping the blood of a dead raider from her sword. She’d pierced the bugger through sternum and spine, and he’d spit blood before he fell. This particular gang of raiders had been giving Aveline grief and plaguing the docks; stealing and looting and executing any odd stranger on sight.

 _Well_ , Aveline thought,  _not tonight_.

She resheathed her blade. She was in her first few weeks as Guard-Captain, and was having none of the chaotic nonsense Jeven had allowed. She’d come down to patrol the Kirkwall docks herself that day, with two trusted companions instead of any of her soldiers of the City Guard—she was still learning who to trust from that lot. Donnic, perhaps. He seemed the honorable sort.

 _Trust may still be too strong a word_ , she considered, staring at the prince’s stately white armor, spattered with redness recent and wet. Just after Aveline had been appointed Captain, she’d walked from the Viscount’s Keep over to the Chantry, with a mind to introduce herself to the Grand Cleric and start making a good impression. She’d arrived in time to witness Sebastian Vael, Prince of Starkhaven, shoot an arrow at a piece of parchment clutched in the Grand Cleric’s hand. He’d pierced it onto the Chantry Board.

Aveline had tried to take him under arrest right then and there. Grand Cleric Elthina, gentle as she is, had insisted otherwise. They’d all got to talking and the royal rogue with his royally-fletched arrows had ended up hiring on the City Guard to dispose of some violent mercenaries in the area. So he  _owed_  her one—that’s why he was helping her at the docks that day.

Her other companion was an ex-slave from Tevinter, an elf named Fenris. He was a scowly son of a bitch, but a beauty on the battlefield. His former master had branded him with lyrium, which let Fenris ghost through fights, a blur of violence and enchantment. Handy, that.

Aveline walked to stand next to him. The elf, though loyal and trustworthy, was particularly averse to the smell of the docks and made it well-known to her. His face was etched in scowl as he turned seaward, inhaling fresh brine on a cool breeze like it was the only air left available. They both waited, watching the water, while Sebastian plucked his arrows from the bodies of the raiders. They were  _special_  arrows, evidently; ones he claimed you  _cannot find_  outside Castle Vael. They waited like this every time, following every fight.

Aveline sighed. She was like to burn, standing out in the sun like this.

It was late in the afternoon; a time when evening starts to make itself known through long shadows and the early appearance of slivered moon hanging high in the clear blue sky. With the raiders dead, the docks were settling down after the commotion, and the crowd of onlookers was dispersing. People milled in their final errands. The harbor was quiet. The sea was still. The waters were calm.

It was why Aveline noticed the moment a hand broke the surface of the water, far out to sea, clawing for purchase that would not come. Fenris saw it too, stiffening and straightening.

“What in the blazes is that?” Aveline muttered, squinting. She raised a hand to shield her eyes from the sun. Though still far enough to be indistinct, she could make out the defining motions of swimming, nothing clear save for alternating arms rising and falling.

“There’s nothing out there for leagues in any direction,” Fenris considered. “A shipwreck survivor, perhaps?”

“Hm,” was all Aveline said in response. She was glancing down the docks to her left. “Oi! You, there!”

A dockworker, startled from the apple he was eating, looked over at Aveline. He then glanced behind himself, and in all other directions.

“Yes,  _you_! Have you got a spyglass?” she shouted over to him.

He didn’t move, except to take another bite of his apple.

“I’m the Captain of the bloody Guard!” she yelled. “And I need your spyglass for an official Kirkwall investigation!”

As the dockworker scurried across the sandstone planks and up the steps to her, Fenris tutted quietly. “That could be seen as an abuse of power, Aveline.”

She snorted, and reached for the brass spyglass being handed to her. “This  _is_  an official Kirkwall investigation. And I  _do_  need this spyglass—I need to see if Sebastian should plug that thing full of arrows before it reaches our fair city.”

“And what is it you are prepared to kill should the need arise, Guard-Captain?” One dark brow shot up, disappearing beneath the hanks of white hair hanging in front of his face.

“Flames, Fenris, I don’t know—do darkspawn swim?”

“Somehow, I doubt it.”

“Doubt what?” Sebastian asked, joining them.

Aveline just sighed, unfairly annoyed at his appearance, and unsnapped the spyglass. She wiped the eyepiece on the palm of her hand in case the dockworker decided to get funny with her and boot-polish it, and then held it up to her eye. She scanned until she found the distant swimming figure.

“What is it?” Sebastian asked Fenris instead. “What have I missed?”

“Darkspawn pirate, maybe. Too soon to tell,” Fenris answered dryly.

“Oh,” Sebastian said, not understanding.

“Got it,” Aveline muttered, focusing on the swimmer. She studied for a moment and then pulled the spyglass away, blinked, and looked through again.

“Well?” Fenris asked.

Aveline cursed and handed the spyglass to him. “It’s a girl.”

He frowned and took the glass, while Sebastian breathed “ _Andraste preserve us_ ” behind them.

“It appears so,” Fenris said, squinting out to sea.

They watched as the girl steadily swam closer, and held their breath when her movement got sluggish and she disappeared underwater for too long. Though Aveline was a strong swimmer herself, she didn’t like her odds of staying afloat in full armor. Neither Fenris nor Sebastian could swim, and not a one of them could manage getting even the simplest of rowboats out that far. Aveline hated that pirate bitch Isabela, but what she wouldn’t give to shove  _her_  in the water and send her off to go tow this poor girl in. Aveline started preemptively kicking herself for watching the water, only to witness a girl drown. If she’d just faced the  _opposite_  direction—had watched Sebastian retrieving his bloodied arrows instead—then she’d have been none the wiser (and a lot less sadder) about the girl drowning behind her.  

The girl didn’t drown. She made it to the limestone steps carved out of the cliff face and crawled out, before she began to stagger up to the docks. She was a human girl. Naked as her nameday. Her hair was as blue as a raw lyrium vein, even wet. Aveline had no explanation for it.

Aveline pushed her arm across Fenris’s front, holding him back as the girl stumbled closer towards where they stood. The girl was obviously unarmed, but in the event that this was a Circle Mage escaped from the island Gallows, she wouldn’t need a weapon. She would  _be_  one.

The girl reached the top of the steps. A landing separated her from them. She noticed Aveline then, and dragged her head up to wearily regard the three people standing and staring a few yards away.

She swayed on her feet, spoke some garbled gibberish, her voice hoarse with seawater—and fainted dead away. 

Her eyes rolled back in her head until only the whites showed and her knees gave first, buckling as she crumpled sideways. Her skull knocked with force against a step, as uncomfortable a sound as it was to witness, and a trickle of red blood began to dribble down the stairs out from under her blue hair.

“Oh, no you don’t,” Aveline said, rushing forward at last. “You did not swim that far just to die on these docks, I'll tell you that.”

She knelt beside the girl and gingerly felt for the cut on her scalp. It was shallow. The more alarming matter became the bluish tinge to the girl’s skin. That, and the violent shivering. Could hypothermia be so acute that it turns one’s hair blue?

“ _Well_ , Sebastian?” Aveline barked. “Mind lending us your royal cloak?”

Sebastian had been staring wide-eyed and horrified at the girl’s figure but snapped to his senses when Aveline spoke. He unfastened the heavy cloak around his shoulders, crimson velvet trimmed in buttery gold suede—and tossed it to Aveline. She promptly tucked it around the not-dead girl’s naked body.

Aveline cradled the girl and lifted slowly, uncomfortable with the lolling movements of unconsciousness in her arms. “Fenris, draw your sword and escort me through the city. Try to look menacing.”

He remained silent but arched a brow at her.

“Oh, right. Well. Carry on, then.” She turned, and faced Sebastian. “And you—walk a few paces behind me and keep an eye out as well. I’m not keen on getting attacked with this cargo in my arms. Think you can handle that,  _your highness_?”

Sebastian ignored the jibe, as was his custom, and gave her a solemn nod. He already had two arrows held in the webbing of his fingers, resting and ready against the bow.

“Alright, to the barracks we go. We’ll send for a healer. Let’s get our swimmer conscious long enough to answer some questions.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm sorry for starting another fic instead of finishing one of my other ones but a) i am the worst and b) this shit has been KEEPING ME UP AT NIGHT, GET IT OUT OF ME


	2. Hawke vs the Exit

Although it was too early for the gangs to be out and prowling Kirkwall, they’d still attracted enough curious stares to make Aveline rethink her journey to the barracks. No privacy in a place like that, even if Aveline herself felt comfortable there. She couldn’t imagine the poor girl would enjoy waking up naked in a roomful of armed guards, so she directed Fenris towards the Chantry instead, knowing the place would have enough resources to help give the girl more dignity.

They’d caught a courier in the square and sent the lad dashing for a healer before they’d even entered the Chantry.

They settled the girl in one of the dorms used for new lay sisters, empty with unpopularity. Not many women giving themselves to the Chantry, these days. They found a clean bed and Sebastian pulled back the sheet for Aveline to lay her down.

The girl’s lips were blue. Aveline pressed an ear to her cold throat and listened for the thin thread of life, a quiet heartbeat. It took too long to thump.

“Where’s the patient?” came a quiet voice from the hall, and Sebastian led the healer inside.

Anders was an apostate mage, formerly of the Grey Wardens. He now served the poor and sickly of Darktown, acting as the only healer for hundreds of people. A thankless task, to be sure, and it was the reason Aveline hadn’t reported him to the Circle. Yet.

“You sent for the _abomination_?” Fenris sneered, voice low with disdain.

“He’s Fereldan,” Aveline answered, raising her chin. “Like me. And besides, this might be”—she gestured broadly at the girl—“magicky.”

Anders sloped to a desk chair and scraped it across the floor to the patient’s bedside. He folded his lanky frame into the small chair and sighed, raising his hands with the familiar gentle glow of blue healing magic. He shut his eyes, and went to work. Sebastian hovered close behind him.

“What happened?” Anders asked, his eyes still closed. His hands were inches above the girl, and still he found the cut on her scalp without prodding or looking. He paused there, hands pulsing with healing as he closed it.

“We don’t know,” Sebastian answered. “She swam in, right to the docks, and collapsed soon after.”

“Swam from what direction?” Anders asked, his hands hovering over her arms. He was working on the hypothermia, now, pulling warmth and life back into blue-tinged limbs. “She might be a Fereldan refugee. Maybe she swam from the Gallows to get into Kirkwall.”

“No, she came in from the east. The Waking Sea,” Fenris said flatly.

Anders’s eyes flew open as he twisted to look at them. “But there’s nothing out there for _miles_!” he exclaimed.

Aveline butt in. “Yes, we’re _all_ very curious, Anders, but I warn you—in the event she is an escaped Circle Mage, I will have to turn her over to the Templars. I don’t want any funny business from you.”

He shot her a dark look before turning back to the girl and resuming his work. His broad palms splayed above her abdomen, and tendrils of creeping blue healing magic twined out, curling around her.

“So make yourself scarce before they get here. Should it come to that,” Aveline added. She noted the small smile Anders permitted to himself, and disregarded the scowl of Fenris.

Anders drew out every last bit of ill health from the girl, exhausting himself as he poured his magic into her. She was likely going to be in better health than before she’d nearly drowned when she woke up. Finally, after long, tense minutes, Anders slumped back against the chair.

“That’s all I can do,” he croaked. He cleared his throat, and wearily rubbed his eyes with the pads of his fingers.

Sebastian placed a hand on the healer’s shoulder and solemnly declared, “This was a generous act, Anders. May Andraste bless you.”

Aveline wanted to snap that out of these men surrounding her, _she’d_ been the one to cart the girl’s dead weight clear across town and up ten flights of stairs, and not once had Sebastian offered assistance or blessing—but she bit her tongue instead.

Anders shifted forward in his seat with a small noise in the back of his throat, peering down at the girl.

Her eyes were fluttering open, slow and sluggish.

She blinked a few times, clearing her eyes. The proper color had returned to her face. Once awake, she lay perfectly still, gazing up at Anders with an impassive expression.

He gave her a kind smile. “Welcome back,” he said gently. “How are you feeling?”

Without moving a muscle, her eyes darted past Anders, to Sebastian standing close behind him. Then she flicked her eyes towards Aveline, and finally, the farthest—Fenris standing in the threshold.

“Oh, shit,” Aveline muttered.

The girl dragged her eyes back to Anders, sitting very close to her, and it was at this point she looked down at herself, breaths now coming in quick and panicked. When she pulled up the sheet and discovered she was naked, she looked back at Anders and Sebastian and with a terrified, wild gaze—sat bolt upright and promptly started shrieking.

“Shit!” Aveline emphasized.

The girl scrambled backwards on the bed, clutching the sheet to her chest and kicking. Her screams were ear-splitting, physically painful things to hear, and Aveline’s hands rose to cover her ears. She watched as Anders held his palms flat and out, and tried to shout for him to back off, but the girl took a deep lungful of air and began another series of high, shrill shrieks. She could've warned Anders he was making a mistake when he tried to calm the girl by reaching a hand out towards her.

The girl clocked him. Even with her back to the wall and unable to reach further back, she pounded her fist against the healer's jaw with enough force that it sent his head snapping to the side, and the girl, still terrified, began to wind the sheet about herself as she kicked and flailed to get off the bed.

“At least she’s no longer screaming,” Fenris said.   

The girl stumbled to a stand and took a few running steps.

“Stop her!” Aveline called out to Sebastian.

“I—I’m not— _how_?”

“Oh, _for the love of Andraste_ , Sebastian! Tackle her if you have to!”

“I don’t think that is appropriate,” he called back. The girl darted past him, one hand holding up the sheet wound tightly around herself and the other hand holding it bunched at her knees to free her legs and run.  

Aveline held her arms out, trying to at least slow the girl’s path before she darted out into the Chantry commons, naked and screaming and traumatizing the lay sisters. The girl was likely going to hurt herself or worse if she got out there.

She came at Aveline like a charging bull. She was a slip of a thing, but running full-tilt and _determined_ , and Aveline braced herself for impact. At the last second, the girl ducked out of Aveline’s enclosing arms and barreled past her; bare feet slipping and slapping on the stone floor. Aveline snatched at air, a movement made clumsy with the heavy guard armor she wore.

The elf was the last obstacle. He blocked the doorway, and Aveline trusted the girl couldn’t get past  _Fenris._  

Fenris neatly stepped aside to let her pass.

Before Aveline could unleash an unhelpful tirade at him, Fenris calmly placed one foot on the trailing end of the girl’s sheet as she sprinted past. With the momentum from her mad dash to freedom thwarted, she snapped backwards into Fenris with the force of a taut bowstring twanging into place. He closed his arms around her, trapping her against his chest. She’d raised her arms in front of herself, so they were pinned while crossed in front of her chest, fists unable to reach anything save her own shoulders.

Still, she fought. She flailed and yelled; spitting venomous words in an ugly and guttural, broken language Aveline had never heard before. When that didn’t work on Fenris and his grip stayed true, she went limp, becoming dead weight in his arms. That made him stumble a bit, and Aveline saw his jaw clench. For a brief moment, Aveline worried the girl would exasperate him too much and they'd all wind up watching her heart pulsing and dying in his fist.

“Here,” Aveline took a step forward, as if to help, but the girl noticed and renewed her feral struggle to free herself from Fenris. She kicked and jerked. Aveline backed off, hands raised. The girl was wild-eyed, chest heaving with panic, wisps of her blue hair falling into her face and in front of her lips, fanning out with each anxious and sharp inhale.

Aveline didn’t know what happened to her to make her this fearful and wild, but if Aveline ever got her hands on the cause, she’d kill it for certain.

Tightening his arms around the girl, Fenris ducked his head down to murmur a few quiet words to her. He spoke too low for Aveline to hear, but still, she could see the effect—tension drained from the girl’s shoulders and though her expression was still terrified, she slumped against him, finally worn out.

Everyone in the room was immobilized and quiet. They watched as Fenris spoke in a tone low and soothing; close to the girl’s ear. And then—improbably—she stilled. The girl reached down, her pinned wrist making any movement very limited, to grasp at his hand. She brushed the sides of her fingers against where his were curled around her upper arm, and when he warily released them—leaving white marks of pressure still imprinted on her skin—she clutched his hand. She pulled his arms tighter around _her_.

“Well,” Anders eventually said. “At least she likes one of us.”  He was holding a cold cloth to the bruise blooming on his jaw, having spent all his healing magic on the girl.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "from zero to sixty: ratcheting up to M-rating in two chapters" a novel by me, barbiehighheels
> 
> this chapter is veering into bodice-ripper territory, i think, but it's not going to be a consistent theme overall. mostly, i just think fenris has the kind of voice that can DO that??
> 
> this fic is so stupid, like, it's terrible and i can't believe i'm writing this, but it's also super fun.


	3. Fenris vs Gravity

Sarah Hawke was a lucid dreamer. She could recognize the edges of dreams and tug at them, bending them to her will. Sometimes that led to vaguely perverse wanderings of hands and mouths, as if the figures in her dreams were dolls to play with, but they weren’t real. She was asleep. She always knew this.

So waking up, spluttering on cold seawater should have been her first clue: this is not a dream.

But still, she tried. She imagined flying, which usually did the trick in her dreams. But she remained stagnant, treading water. In the far distance she could see the pale mass of humanity, a line above the ocean horizon signalling civilization—so she began to swim.

She swam until her muscles screamed for mercy, thick with fatigue and dragging. They were leaden and threatening, resisting any more momentum, preferring to drown.

She began humming under her breath, spitting seawater as necessary. This could still be a dream. She could remember a few nightmares from the past that left her heart thundering long after she’d woken up and realized it was only a dream. This could be one too. This could just be a very realistic, very chilly nightmare.

The last thing she remembered was getting into her bed, in her dorm room, at her college, in New York. She fell asleep excited about the prospect of a snow day, as the weather called for. She’d heard the soft, comforting sighs of her roommate already sleeping soundly.

She kept her head down as she came nearer, not wasting the energy to lift her head and survey what it was she swam towards. Every rationale, every thought in her brain became dead weight that she shucked to survive. She staggered out of the water right onto rough, pale, stone steps that were wide and flat, uneven with many footsteps. Her teeth had stopped clacking together in the water and she found herself unable to feel the cold anymore. It felt as if she was made of stone. Definitely a dream-feeling, that sensation of invincibility.

She climbed up the steps on shaking legs, struggling with each plodding drop of her heavy feet.

When she made it to the top, she was greeted with a strange sight: a woman with red hair, glaring at her. Wearing full armor, and holding a sword out. Her brows were drawn and she stood in front of two men, an arm thrown out in front of one of them.

“Nice cosplay, nerd,” Sarah slurred. “This ‘n anime convention or something?”

She collapsed. And then nothing. And then, cut to black.

 

* * *

 

When Sarah came to, it was like slogging upwards through quicksand. She struggled to wake up. There was a sense of urgency pulling her through, like she’d slept through a midterm, or it was Christmas morning, or any number of things her subconscious couldn’t name but wanted her to wake up and quickly address all the same.

The struggle ebbed as her exhaustion did, and it was like a cool, clinical wash of pain medication injecting into her veins. As her bloodstream spread the medicine, her eyes fluttered open.

A man. There was a man. With feathers and a ponytail. Smiling at her. His hands were glowing blue.

Beyond him, another man. In armor. A bow strapped to his back. Looking grave.

She was in a bedroom. A dorm room? Multiple beds. Oil lanterns. Slate walls. Tapestries.

Across the room, the redhead. The woman. Wearing armor. Shield on her back. Still frowning.

And beyond her, a third man. White, silvery hair. Pointed ears.

Sarah became aware of herself then, as her mind slipped fully back into her body and she remembered that she was Sarah Hawke, NYU class of ‘15. She lived in a dorm suite with three other girls. Her roommate’s name was Amber.

She looked back at the man sitting beside her and he smiled, and spoke something she couldn’t understand.

Sarah felt a mounting panic attack seizing her lungs, stealing all air, and shooting sharp pains into her sternum—she looked down at herself—she was naked. She was wearing nothing but a sheet.

Sarah began to scream.

 

* * *

 

She screamed loud enough that the sound ripped out of her sharply, searing and painful as it tore through her throat. She didn’t stop screaming. Sarah Hawke had watched Netflix documentaries about human trafficking.

The man sitting closest to her said something, even if it had been in a language she understood, the sounds were drowned out by the din of her shrieking. She didn’t care. When he reached a hand out to her, she lashed out, driving her fist into his jaw with a purpose and force she never knew she possessed. When his head snapped sideways, it gave her a strand of hope. She could fight her way out of this.

She clutched the sheet that covered her and began to scramble off the bed, winding the sheet tightly to hide her nudity. She stumbled once she was standing, and took a couple running steps. The man in white, with the bow, didn’t make a move to stop her.

The redhead did. She planted herself between Sarah and the door and stretched her arms out on either side, waiting to catch her. Sarah feinted right and spun, slipping and stumbling as she ducked under the woman’s arms. She sprinted towards the door. The white-haired man blocking it stepped aside impassively, letting her pass.

She had about a millisecond of wild freedom.

He stepped on the end of her sheet and caught her when she slammed backwards. While she kicked and screamed, snarling feral sounds that startled even her, he wrapped his arms around her, and trapped her. Her back was to his chest. She tried kicking him and wriggling, she tried to snap the crown of her head backwards into his chin. When none of these things worked, she went limp.

He stumbled, but didn’t drop her.

The redhead said something and took a step forward, as if Sarah’s pliantness was some kind of invitation, but when she saw Sarah’s renewed fight, she backed off again with raised palms.

The man restraining her ducked down and spoke. His voice was low and controlled, and something about it made Sarah stop flailing. She went still.

He paused for a moment, and then murmured something else. His grip on her loosened slightly. If this were a dream, Sarah would be twisting in his arms and taking his clothes off. (Dream-Sarah was really shameless like that.)

She couldn’t move. He was pinning her wrists to her chest. She unclenched the fist she was holding to her shoulder and rotated just far enough that she could touch his hand. He had spiky metal gloves on. Gauntlets, she thought. That’s what they’re called. When the sides of her fingers bent to brush against his, he unclasped his hand slightly, allowing her to take his hand in hers. She pulled his arms around her tighter. And he complied. Maybe...this was a dream. A spiky fever dream.

The man at the far side of the room still sat by the bed, a bandage over the spot where Sarah had hit him. He said something with an eyebrow raised as he appraised her.

Sarah tilted her head back to get a good look at the man holding her and he tucked his chin to frown at her. His hair was bleached silver-white, but it wasn’t like any bleached hair she’d ever seen before. The strands were thick and gleaming, almost artificial-looking. His eyes were wide and light green. And his ears, they were really pointed.

She let go of his hand to give him the Vulcan salute. She’d never even seen enough Star Trek to fully understand the gesture, but hopefully pop culture references would transcend language barriers.

His frowned deepened. The redhead spoke up and snapped something sharp-sounding at the man in white armor, and he nodded and hurried from the room. He gave Sarah a polite tilt of his head when he caught her watching him.

The man holding her extricated himself, now stiff and awkward with their proximity. Sarah’s mind was still reeling.

When the man in white returned, he held out a bundle of cloth to Sarah. She flinched backwards from it on instinct, the sudden movement a detriment to her current (bewildered) state, but when his expression softened with apology, she reached out and accepted it.

Clothes. He’d given her clothes. The redhead had barked for him to go get her something to wear.

Sarah gave the redhead a thumbs-up as a thank you, but the woman just tilted her head in confusion. She turned and started talking to the man with the feathers. Now that Sarah was listening to a conversation in this language, she tried to place what it sounded like. It didn’t sound at all like one of the romance languages, and she couldn’t pick up any familiar trills or rolled r’s. She couldn’t find the clacking consonants of German or rumbling vowels of Russian. It was unlike anything she’d ever heard before.

The man with the feathers shook his head, disagreeing with whatever the redhead was arguing. He opened his palms and explained something, impassioned. Sarah turned around to look at the white-haired guy, but he was staring intently at the conversation taking place, a slight scowl in his features. When he felt Sarah watching him, he flicked his eyes down to her, and then the bundle in her hands. He jerked his head to the side, and when Sarah looked, she noticed a changing screen. She padded behind it.

The clothes were rough-spun and uncomfortable. They were heavy and there was too much to tie, too many yards of fabric. There was something that looked like a hoodie, but it was made of velvet and gaped open at the front. She found a shirt and leggings and tossed aside the rest. She felt numb to this experience.

When she stepped out from behind the screen, the redheaded woman took one look at her and sighed heavily. She rolled her eyes and muttered something that made the white-haired man chuckle. The woman gestured for Sarah to go back behind the screen, and followed her back there.

Once they were both behind the screen, the woman knelt, with the creaking sounds of metal around her joints, and picked up the clothing Sarah had discarded. She set her mouth in a firm line and draped the fabric over Sarah properly. The red thing had been a sash, evidently.

“Sorry,” Sarah shrugged. The woman ignored her.

When they stepped back out into the room, the man with the feathers was gone. The two remaining men were discussing something heatedly, and the woman soon joined in. While the three of them talked, they ignored Sarah. She used the opportunity to look around the room.

There were thick, ancient books bound with leather and thread. Some had metal clasps holding them closed. The tapestries on the walls had a symbol that looked somewhat like a flaming sword, and the stone floor she walked on was worn smooth. She found a hand-mirror, silver and ornate, and held up the handle to look at herself. She was still Sarah. Her hair was long, tangled, and dyed with Manic Panic Atomic Turquoise and Lagoon Blue.

She put the mirror down and wandered as far as the door, taking a quick peek back to see if they were all distracted enough. The white-haired one wasn’t; and still watched her warily from under cover of the hair hanging in front of his eyes.

Sarah turned back, ignoring the door. She trailed her fingers over the scarlet fabric of worn coverlets. The pillows were full of buckwheat hulls.

Of all things, it was the buckwheat hulls that awoke her panic. It was the last thing to strike her as odd—not the hand mirror, not the oil lanterns or the leather-bound books, but the buckwheat hulls.

She walked out the door quietly, and with purpose.

She was in a cathedral of some sort. Unlike any Christian church she’d ever visited, and yet still very much the same. The sounds of prayer have the same cadence, no matter the language. Everyone was dressed as Sarah was. Incense curled in thick plumes from enormous brass statues. The space was filled with the hushed, reverential quiet, the appropriate silence of faith. There was no plastic anywhere.

She had been kidnapped and brought to some kind of medieval survivalist cult. Right? Or maybe this was still a dream.

Sarah, still without shoes, padded barefoot to the stone railing overlooking the church. There was about a forty-foot drop.

She’d read once that the reason you jolt awake when you fall in dreams is because your mind has no way of accounting for death—it can’t run the simulation of something it doesn’t understand, so rather than deal with the unknown algorithm, you are yanked awake.

Her toes curled over the cold stone edge and her stomach flipped nervously when she looked down at the unforgiving stone floor. If nothing else, this would wake her up.

She climbed to stand on top of the railing. 


	4. Anders vs Amulet

“She’s not a bloody Qunari spy!” Aveline insisted, again, with force.

“I am just theorizing,” Sebastian explained with the gentle tone one might use to address a toddler, “That this could be a clever ruse.”

“What, drowning herself? Is _that_ a part of the Qun?”

“It could be,” Fenris added with a shrug. He was tiring of these circular arguments.

The strange girl was poking about the room disinterestedly, trailing light fingertips over cloth and metal. Fenris kept his eyes trained to her, untrusting of this blue-haired creature.

“What if she is merely pretending not to speak the Trade tongue? What if she is convincing enough in this ploy of ignorance that we speak freely in front of her?” Sebastian asked.

Aveline scoffed and folded her arms. She looked over at the girl, who was holding a Chantry book of sermons in her hands, turning it over and over. “Oi, odd one—Brother Sebastian here says he wants to lift up those lay sister robes of yours and—”

“I said _no_ such thing!”

She huffed out a heavy sigh. “That’s not the point. The point is, she’s not a spy. She needs help! She’s addled, just look at her—”

They looked at an empty room. Aveline cursed and shot to her feet, moving to the door with the sounds and squeaks of well-oiled armor announcing her each step. Fenris followed silently.

She stopped just outside the threshold, frozen, her eyes fixed to a point far ahead. “Fenris,” Aveline breathed, her face blanching. 

He understood when his gaze followed. It was he alone who could get there in time.

The veins of lyrium pulsed blue and he flashed forward to the balcony’s far edge faster than any human eye could follow. He clamped his gauntleted hand around the girl’s wrist and yanked her down off the high railing she meant to fling herself from.

She fell backwards with the upset to her balance, arms flung out on either side of herself. Fenris saw it happen in slow-motion. He jerked the wrist he’d captured her with, and caught her against him before she could crash painfully onto the stones.

As Aveline and Sebastian bickered quietly behind them, Fenris was bent over the girl, his free hand splayed between her shoulderblades as he cradled her, keeping her from falling. They were nearly nose-to-nose. Fenris could feel her warm breath fanning across his lips as her eyes searched his. There were...tears rolling down her cheeks.

“I agree with Aveline,” Fenris muttered quietly. “The girl is not a spy.”

Just as Fenris had the uncomfortable realization that the weeping girl cradled in his arms was quite comely, actually—a shout came from below, echoing and obtrusive among the silence and stones.

“Fenris,” called out the abomination. “Catch!”

He released her wrist to snatch the amulet out of the air that Anders had flung from the landing of the stairs.

Fenris didn’t bother apologizing, knowing she wouldn’t understand the words, so without further hesitation he slapped the flat back of the Whispering Veils amulet pendant to the center of her chest.

He did not relish the look in her eyes as the amulet’s magic burned through her clothing and sank barbs of enchantment into the tender skin beneath. She stared at him as if he had betrayed her.

As the magic sank its claws into her chest and neck, the girl let out a broken moan of pain and squeezed her eyes shut as fresh tears rolled down. He saw the tendrils of purple light flash up her veins and travel up her throat until it shone out from the back of her mouth and pulsed in the corners of her eyes. The chains of the amulet snaked around her neck and tightened. She sobbed and swallowed, coughing from the enchanted intrusion.

“Can you understand me?” Fenris asked.

She looked up at him sharply, recognition and awareness overtaking her shock. Aveline stepped close behind Fenris, a reassuring presence announced audibly by armor.

“Say something,” he demanded softly.

The girl knit her brow and glanced around with new eyes, magicked and faintly purpled, as she saw things in—literally—a new light. She mouthed a word first, and then turned to him. She reached a shaking hand out, as if to cup the side of his face—and Fenris permitted it. He stood still and stared, stern and unforgiving. Her hand was cool to the touch. Her thumb brushed against his cheekbone.

“Your breath smells like booze,” she whispered.

Anders barked out a rude laugh behind them, and Aveline, all-business, brushed past Fenris.

“Right,” she clipped, forcing the girl’s attention from Fenris to her. “The amulet’s enchantment is only temporary, so we don’t have much time. What is your name?”

“Sarah.”

“Serah _what_?” Aveline demanded.

“Um...Sarah Hawke?”

“Right, then. Hawke it is. Well, Serah Hawke—I’m Guard-Captain Aveline Vallen, of the Kirkwall City Guard. Pleased to make your acquaintance. Sort of.”

Hawke blinked twice.

“Hawke, where are you from?”

“New York?”

“New York?” Aveline echoed, tilting her head. “Is that in Antiva?”

“I didn’t even know there was an _old_ York,” Anders piped up.

“It’s in...America? Like, the United States?”

“Is that near Nevarra?”

“What? The bassist?”

“ _What_?”

“This isn’t working,” Fenris interjected. “Find a new line of questioning.”

Aveline pursed her lips and nodded, turning back to the girl. “How did you get here?”

“I swam.”

“Yes, we saw that much—how did you get in the water?”

“I woke up there. I don’t know. I don’t remember,” Hawke said, trembling fingers fussing with the wide sleeves of her lay sister robes.

“What _is_ the last thing you remember?” Aveline asked, with an undercurrent of gentleness to her sharp tone.

“I...I was in my bed. In my room. In my dorm. I was excited about classes being cancelled for a snow day.”

“Are you an apostate?”

“A what?”

“An escaped Circle mage.”

“A _what_!?”

“Next topic, Aveline,” Fenris interrupted. He was determined to keep them on track before the magic wore off.

“Are you a spy, Hawke?”

“A wha—no, um, I’m a junior.”

“A what?”

“I’m in school. Studying. To be a lawyer.”

“A what?”

“Is that like a magistrate?” Sebastian called out.

“What’s that?” Hawke asked.

Aveline dropped her face into her hands. “Flames,” she cursed. “This isn’t working out so well.”

“I think I’m from the future,” Hawke blurted out. She glanced around them, unsure of herself after the declaration.

“Pardon?” Aveline straightened, leaning her head in. "I have heard of stranger things, I suppose."  

“What year is it?” Hawke asked.

“9:31 Dragon,” Fenris promptly responded.

“Drag—the _fuck_?” Hawke asked, shaking her head. “No, _no_ , what year is it? You know, like, for example: nineteen-ninety-two? AD? _After death_ , as in, after the death of that guy Jesus Christ?”

“Jesus Christ?” Aveline asked, unrecognizing.

“Yes! Jesus Christ! Jesus fuckshit goddamn Christ! Holy shit! What the fuck is wrong with you!” Hawke cried, throwing her hands up in the air. She unleashed a string of curses, some of which Fenris couldn’t recognize, but some he did.

“This, er...Jesus..is he an important man where you’re from?” Sebastian asked gently.

Hawke stopped pacing. “Yes.” She looked for a moment as if she meant to continue explaining, but thought better of it and sighed instead, resuming her manic pacing.

“So you think you’re from the future,” Aveline pondered out loud. 

Hawke spun on her heel. She looked Aveline in the eye, her face tear-stained but grave. “Yes. I’m from the future. I’ve been sent back in time to say...the moon landing was faked, 9/11 was an inside job, and Beyoncé had the best video of the year.”

Before they could request clarification, the amulet Hawke wore sparked and sputtered with wild glints of dying magic. Purple enchantment receded from her eyes and throat, flashing and fading. The amulet unstuck from her chest and clattered to the floor. It spun in tight circles, sending off wisps of magicked smoke and guttering out until it lay still, pendant blackened and cracked with use.

“So glad we wasted my ancient elven artifact on this,” Anders said dryly.

“Shut up,” Aveline answered.


	5. Isabela vs Language Barriers

“You want me to do _what_?” Varric asked, eyebrows quirked with amusement. He leaned back in his chair, lacing thick fingers together over his stomach.

“Just...for now. Just until I figure out a more permanent solution,” Aveline explained. Behind her, a young human girl with blue hair was silently picking through Varric’s belongings in his suite at The Hanged Man.

“Isn’t there someone better suited to this kind of thing—Anders?”

“The exhausted rebel apostate? Oh yes, I’m sure he’d make a _fine_ nanny.”

“Fenris, then.”

Aveline didn’t dignify that with anything more than a pointed look.

“Well, you _said_ the kid liked the elf.”

“She did seem to take to him, but Fenris downright balked at the idea of looking after her.”

“I can’t imagine why,” Varric drawled. The kid had now made her way to his bookshelf and was opening up each tome, one by one, before tossing them onto the floor.

“Frankly, Varric—you seemed the most stable option I could turn to.”

“Me? ‘ _Stable_ ’? I’m flattered.”

“Good. It’s settled then,” Aveline unfolded her arms and straightened. “Hawke!”

The girl—Hawke, evidently—started at the sound of her name. Aveline pointed to Varric, and very loudly, very slowly, intoned: “ _Varric._ ”  

“Varric?” Hawke echoed.

“Hello, Hawke,” said Varric.

“Varric,” Hawke answered.

“What kind of name is that?” he asked, looking over to Aveline.

The Guard-Captain shrugged. “She just said her name was ‘Serah Hawke.’”

“So it’s a family name. Huh. Maybe she’s got family around these parts.”

“Excellent idea, Varric! I’ll just take my leave, then, so you can investigate that!”

“What!? You’re dumping the kid here right _now_?”

“Varric, please—I have to get back to work. I’ve still got a lot of Jeven’s mess to clean up and I don’t want to fall behind in my duties during my _first month_ as Captain of the Guard.” Aveline stared at him with wide, pleading eyes.

“Don’t look at me like that. You know I hate it when humans cry.”

“I’ll bear that in mind,” Aveline said, raising an eyebrow. “And—thank you, Varric.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Aveline rested a hand on her belt as she clanked around the table to Hawke, who was now opening Varric’s drawers and rifling disinterestedly through his tunics.

“Hawke,” Aveline said gently, getting her attention.

“Aveline,” Hawke answered, not looking up from the drawer.

Aveline rested her hand on Hawke’s arm, and Hawke jumped at the contact. She looked at the woman.

The Guard-Captain sighed, and gave a little shake of her head. “I know it’s no use explaining this to you, but I have to get back to work—so Varric here is going to look after you for the time being. Alright?”

Hawke stared at her for a beat before wordlessly turning away and walking straight for Varric’s bed. When her shins hit the edge, she dropped down into a battleworn kneel before she pitched forward, and flopped face-down on the mattress.

“I’m going to introduce her to Isabela,” Varric decided.

“Varric, no. Do not do that,” Aveline said firmly as she brushed out the door.

“ _Isabela_!” Varric called out, in the direction of the tavern.

 

* * *

The pirate queen, however, was nowhere to be found. Not until the candles were burning low and guttering, late enough that the crowd of the Hanged Man had dwindled down to the passed-out patrons or the sad sorts drinking alone and resolutely drowning their sorrows well into the witching hour. Isabela sauntered in with a sly sway in her hips; a tell.

She wrapped her knuckles on the bar to wake Corff up and gestured for two drinks. The bleary bartender blinked and went to fetch fresh tankards from the back room, where on a cot lay his snoring barmaid, Norah.

She tipped Corff two extra silvers for having woken him up, and took the tankards up to Varric’s suite. He’d still be awake. He always was at this hour.

He was writing at his table, brow furrowed at the parchment while his quill made rapid scritching noises across the page. Isabela set the ale down in front of him, a safe distance from his papers, and walked around to the opposite side of the table.

Varric glanced up, quill still poised on the parchment, and shot his eyes straight to Isabela’s hip, or more specifically—the tell in it. “Have a good night, huh?”

Isabela smirked and sat down opposite him, holding her ale with both hands. “I made a new friend.”

“You’re really good at that, from what I hear.”

“What have you heard?” Isabela leaned forward, knowing her cleavage would threaten to spill out of her top. She was proud of her shape and made no secret of the fact.

“A sellsword with a limp last night, and an elven girl tonight.”

“Mm,” Isabela agreed. She stifled a yawn.

“Oh, and speaking of new friends—check out who’s in the bed,” he nodded with his chin towards the room behind them.

Isabela pursed her lips in a smile and pushed back from the table while Varric scratched a few final notes to himself and set his quill down. He clenched and unclenched his fists, rubbing some of the soreness out. He must have been at it for hours before Isabela got there.

She set her ale down on a sidetable and tiptoed into Varric’s bedroom, dim light flickering against the rough-hewn wood walls. She could make out the shape of something small and curved under the covers.

“Oooh, a present? For me?” Isabela purred softly, turning back to Varric. He was shaking his head with a smile, broad palms wrapped around his ale.

“Sadly, no. She’s my guest.”

“Uh—Varric!” Isabela’s eyes widened in delighted shock. Her voice dropped into a hushed, excited whisper, “What about _Bianca_?”

“Relax, Rivaini. I’m just babysitting Aveline’s new project. Apparently, the kid washed up on the docks naked, half-drowned, and speaking in tongues.”

“So?”

“‘ _So_ ’? You don’t think there’s a story there?”

“There’s always a story, Varric.” Isabela rolled her eyes, but her voice was laced with cynicism as she continued, “There’s always something horrible happening to some poor sweet thing out there, but it doesn’t mean we’re responsible for rescuing every single one.”

“Fair enough. I’ll up the stakes: Her name is Hawke. She has blue hair. She speaks no language any of us have heard of. Oh, and get this—she thinks she’s from the future.” He sat back with a self-satisfied smirk, confident he’d succeeded in piquing Isabela’s curiosity.

Isabela’s eyebrows shot up and she turned back around to the girl sleeping in Varric’s bed. She reached for her tankard and polished off her ale with one smooth swallow, and moving with all the stealth and grace she’d learned over the years as a dagger-wielding rogue, silently made her way through shadows to crouch beside the bed and peer into the girl’s face.

She was more young woman than ‘kid,’ as Varric had called her. Somewhere in her early twenties, Isabela realized as she studied her. Though, to Aveline and Varric, surely that was young enough to be classified as such.

Isabela had visited a port once, somewhere on the coast of Nevarra, just before the Waking Sea threatens to spit you out into Orlais. There had been a guild of sellswords who colored their beards with distinctive chalks and dyes and Isabela had been enchanted when they’d sailed into port—all those burly swordsmen, and their pastel-confectionary coiffures!

She reached out and flipped a blue lock between her pointer and middle fingers to study it. The young woman, of course, awoke.

“Hello, sweet thing,” Isabela commented idly, still rubbing the chalk-less soft hair between her fingers.

The girl spoke some garbled nonsense with a yawn, before sleepily rubbing her eyes. Isabela perched on the edge of the bed beside her.

“Sorry—don't speak mermaid.” Isabela dropped her hands to clasp in her lap.

Hawke sat up abruptly, leaning in so close to Isabela that the pirate started and pulled back with a frown. Then Hawke said a single word and pointed to the piercing below Isabela’s lip.

“Oh, you want to see this? Here,” she said, and leaned in.

Hawke’s face broke out into a grin. She tilted her own chin out and pointed to a spot just below her lip, tapping it. Isabela looked at where she pointed and saw that Hawke, in the very same place where Isabela was pierced, had a small scar.

“Oh!” she exclaimed with understanding, and then tapped the gold ball below her lip, before pointing back. Hawke smiled and laughed, and then traced her finger down the center of her bottom lip.

“A ring, then. Not a stud like mine,” Isabela said.

Hawke looked at her blankly.

“A _ring_ ,” Isabela repeated. “You had the same piercing except it was a _ring_.”

Hawke, not understanding, winced in apology.

“Oh, bugger it, here—” Isabela started pulling open the top laces of her corset.

Hawke watched with remarkable respectfulness and Varric coughed into his fist behind them. When her breasts were freed, she pointed to the small gold hoops in her nipples, and then back to Hawke’s piercing scar.

“Ring,” Isabela explained. “See? _Ring_.” She pointed back to Hawke’s piercing scar, and then made the same gesture Hawke had done before, running a finger down the middle of her bottom lip.

Hawke threw her head back to laugh and clapped her hands together once, nodding. Then, still laughing, she pointed from Isabela’s chest to her own, as if to say, “ _Me too_.” Isabela grinned and started lacing up her corset again. She could hear the furious scratching noises of Varric’s quill behind them.

And then, still grinning, Hawke threw her arms around the pirate’s neck, hugging her so tightly that it nearly knocked her off the bed. Isabela raised her arms around the young woman’s waist in return, completing the embrace.

“So—what do you think, Rivaini? Is this ' _poor sweet thing_ ' one worth saving?” Varric chuckled softly.

Isabela smirked without turning around to look at him. With her arms still around Hawke, she declared: “Yes. I like this one.”

“Isabela,” Varric warned, “please don’t fuck my charge.”

“No promises.”

“Speaking of not fucking, can I bunk with you tonight? It might be awkward for the kid to wake up next to a snoring, hairy, dwarf.”

“And it wouldn’t be awkward for me?”

He snorted. “You are impervious to awkward, Isabela. You are un-awkwardable.”

She silently considered that for a moment, before conceding with a nod. “Fine, but I get to be on top.”

Varric yawned. “Not a problem, human. I prefer the bottom bunk anyway.”


	6. Sebastian vs Sandwich

When Hawke woke up, she couldn’t move. She looked up to find a shadowy creature perched on the headboard above her, leering and snarling as it gazed down.

She could hear Aveline, Isabela, and Varric just outside the bedroom, talking idly around the dining room table. Hawke tried to scream out to them but couldn’t open her lips; instead she whimpered quietly in the back of her throat. The shadowy creature dipped nearer, black saliva dripping from the corners of its gnarled maw. She tried to hurl herself from the bed, but her limbs were cemented with complete paralysis. She remained helpless as the creature lunged for her throat.

Hawke woke up. The world came into acute focus; one with scent and sight and movement. Her heartbeat thumped down to a more normal rhythm, and she blinked. She could hear the lulling murmur of soft voices just outside the bedroom: the conscientious quietness of people who were trying to let someone else sleep. There was something comforting about the familiarity of that, even if she couldn’t understand a word of what they were saying. She rubbed the crust of sleep from the corners of her eyes and yawned. She could smell food, and her disgruntled stomach growled its emptiness. She pulled back the covers and stumbled to a stand, pushing the frizzy curtain of blue bed-head hair out of her eyes.

When she rounded the corner, she saw Aveline standing at the head of the table in front of a wicker basket. Fenris was leaning a shoulder against the far wall, his hands clasped casually over his lower stomach. Isabela, Varric, and Ponytail-and-Feathers guy were sitting around the table, while Aveline was pulling small bundles from inside the basket and officiously distributing them to everyone. She stopped when she caught sight of Hawke. Everyone then turned to look at the intrusion.

Hawke tittered nervously at the edge of the room until Ponytail-and-Feathers nudged a chair out with his foot, nodding for her to join them. She smiled gratefully, and crossed the room to sit at the other head of the table, opposite Aveline.

Before she could sit, Isabela tugged Hawke’s wrist, yanking her until she was sitting in Isabela’s lap. Hawke was too sleepy to resist as Isabela combed her sleep-wild hair with nimble fingers and then braided it quickly with neat, well-practiced ease. When she was finished, she patted Hawke’s thigh as if to say “ _ Okay, all done, get up now. _ ”

Something about being groomed made Hawke feel more human, so she gave Isabela a quick hug in thanks. The woman patted her fondly in return. Isabela then said something to Aveline as if Hawke wasn’t even there, and Aveline said something in response that Varric chuckled at.

When Hawke sat down, Varric poured hot tea from a pewter carafe into a thick, unglazed earthenware cup, and pushed it across the table towards her. She eagerly accepted, and wrapped both hands around the warm mug. The tea was black, steaming, and aromatic.

Sunlight golden and slight spilled in from the hall, though the brightest edges of morning were dulled with the  _ very _ early hour. Keeping her face down, Hawke glanced up through her lashes at Ponytail-and-Feathers sitting next to her. The bruise she’d given him was completely gone—just  _ how _ long had she been asleep? Baffled, she studied the lanky man until he caught her examining his face, and looked over at her. He gave Hawke a wink.

He tried telling her something, but Hawke just shrugged at him. Aveline spoke up from the other end of the room, addressing him, and when the man turned back to Hawke, he pointed to the center of his chest.

“ _ Anders _ ,” he told her.

“Anders?” she repeated.

He gave a gentle smile with a short nod, and pointed to her next. “Hawke?”

Nodding, she let go of her mug to stick her hand out at him. He shook it, looking slightly delighted. He said something snarky to Aveline—who snorted.

They all resumed their chattering, and not understanding a word, Hawke felt like a little kid sitting at the grown up’s table. They were all eating breakfast together, unwrapping breakfast sandwiches. Hawke could pick out the smells of butter, bread, and bacon, and her stomach growled loudly.

While they were talking, Aveline passed one of the basket’s bundles to Isabela, who passed it down the table to Hawke. She took it and unwrapped the thick cloth napkin hastily to find an egg-and-bacon sandwich. She stuffed about half of it into her mouth in one bite.

It could have been because she was so hungry, but the breakfast sandwich was easily the best thing Hawke had ever eaten. Thick slices of hot, fresh, brown bread were smeared with ample butter and stacked around salty-sweet bacon and an egg fried just enough so the yolk was soft but not runny. Even the tomatoes had been fried in butter; their edges crisp and golden while the centers were tender and juicy. Hawke moaned her delight and her eyes fluttered shut as she chewed.

She polished the sandwich off quickly. Hawke washed it down with black tea, pulling deep gulps of the now-cooled liquid as she drained the mug. She set it back down on the table with a ceramic clink and a satisfied sigh.

The table had gone silent as they stared at her. Varric, without a word, cautiously reached for the tea carafe to refill her mug.

It then occurred to Hawke that she’d been making a lot of noise.

She was struggling with her surroundings, still, and even though she knew this was no dream—she still had dichotomous moments of  _ Real/Not Real. _ Hawke had forgotten that even though their attention was turned away from her, that she would still be there. She was no ghost. She could affect the world around her. She had the sneaking suspicion that if she screamed, at least one of these strange people would come running.

Isabela dodged the slap of Aveline’s hand as she reached into the basket and snatched another sandwich. She tossed it to Hawke, who caught it with a grin, and unwrapped it. Without further preamble, she took a huge bite and beamed up at Aveline, cheeks bulging with food as she chewed.

 

* * *

 

 

_Well, the royal archer in white armor sure chose a fine time to arrive!_ Aveline thought with a scowl. Sebastian had breezed in right as Hawke was devouring  _ his _ breakfast. Aveline had made just enough food for each of them. She’d been hoping to ply enough of her companions with a hot meal that a few might actually accompany her that day on an errand to Sundermount, well outside the city. Other than Fenris—who was ever-ready for a brawl and hurting for coin—she wasn’t sure she could get any of them to agree to the task.

Sebastian stopped at the head of the table next to her and bowed his head slightly in greeting at the room’s occupants. Only Isabela greeted him in kind, with a wordless waggle of her fingers.

“I apologize for not coming sooner,” he said. “I was intercepted by more of those Sharps highwaymen on my way from the Chantry.”

Aveline cursed under her breath, while Varric piped up from the other end of the table: “I swear, those guys keep multiplying. Every time one of them gets killed, three more spring up in his place.”

Sebastian agreed with a grave nod. He turned to face Aveline, his posture straight-backed and royal, and royally annoying. “Is that why you called us to meet this morning, Ser Captain? Have you located their hideout base?”

She scowled, and rubbed the tight point of tension between her brows. “No, not yet. I’m still working on that. I haven’t had much time.”

“Funny how you won’t ask your  _ guardsmen _ to prowl dark corners for gangs, but you feel perfectly comfortable asking us,” Isabela said with a dip of her chin.

“What—not capable enough?” Aveline fired back. “Too scared, slore?”

Isabela shot her a dirty look.

“And no, that’s not why I've gathered you all. I need to go to the Dalish camp on Sundermount, and as I have no idea what sort of problems might arise while I’m out there, I’d like some...company.”

“Help, you mean,” Anders said. “You’re asking for our help.”

“...Assistance,” Aveline hedged.

“Oh, just say it,” Varric teased. “Say ‘help.’”

“Ooh! And say  _ please _ ,” Isabela added.  

“Fine!” she snapped. “I need your help— _ please _ ! Happy now, whore?”

The pirate purred, “I’m a very happy whore.”

Varric chuckled. “What do you need to go all the way out to Sundermount for, anyhow?”

“Do you remember that amulet I was telling you about? I have to take it to their Keeper.”

“Still!? Aveline, you’ve been here for a year! Do you mean to tell me you’ve been holding onto that thing this whole time!?”

“I’ve been busy!” Indignant, she slammed her gauntleted hand onto the table hard enough to rattle the cups atop it. The noise startled Hawke, who sat at the opposite end of the table. The strange girl had been lost in a daydream, staring off into space.

“Okay, okay,” Varric conceded, raising his palms; while Isabela said in a singsong tone: “ _ Ooh, someone’s testy! _ ”

Aveline took a deep breath and marshalled her patience. She always needed it with this lot. She looked around the room, making eye contact. “So? Any takers? Fresh air, sunshine? Possible violence?”

Fenris, who’d been so quiet she’d forgotten the elf was even in the room, straightened off the wall. “I’ll accompany you.”

She nodded her thanks with a tense smile.

Anders pushed back from the table with an apologetic grimace. “The clinic is open today. I have too many patients to see to—I’m sorry. Thank you for breakfast, though.” He stood, and waved goodbye to them all. Aveline had expected as much. She knew he wouldn’t feel comfortable tagging along once Fenris was in the mix.

“I’m afraid I cannot assist either,” Sebastian said, his royal-blue eyes beseeching and polite. “I have...chantry business to attend to.”

Aveline rolled her eyes. She then leveled Varric with a deliberate stare, and raised an eyebrow.  _ C’mon, dwarf _ .

“Er...Merchant’s Guild meeting today. Sorry.”

“You haven’t been to a meeting in months!” Aveline scoffed.

“Which is why going to  _ this _ meeting is particularly important! Plus, Bartrand found some coordinates to a primeval thaig, and he’s pitching the Guild today. He wants funding for a full-scale Deep Roads expedition.”  

“Well. Best of luck with that.”

“I’ll keep you updated.”

Finally, she looked at Isabela with a sigh. The pirate bitch was already grinning at her.

Isabela touched her palms to the center of her chest with melodramatic beneficence. “Aveline, I would be  _ delighted _ to help you.”

Aveline scowled.

“What about the kid?” Varric asked, hiking a thumb at Hawke. In her own world, Hawke was staring down at the ends of her hair; the tail of her braid drawn over her shoulder and captured between two fingers.

“She’s fine here,” Aveline decided.

“Oh, no. Nuh-uh,” Varric shook his head. “You are not leaving the project alone in my home.”

“She was alone here last night!”

“And  _ unconscious _ for just about all of it!”

Aveline planted her hands on her hips and shrugged. “Fine. Sebastian will take care of her today.”

Sebastian spluttered, uncrossing his arms. “I don’t—that’s—Aveline,  _ no _ . No. It is inappropriate for a young girl in peril to be left alone with a Chantry brother for so long. People would draw the wrong conclusion.”

The guard-captain gritted her teeth: “Then leave her with the bloody  _ lay _ sisters, Sebastian.”

“Is that wise?” Fenris asked. “Hasn’t there been a rash of disappearances of refugees under Chantry care?”

“Yeah—I thought that’s why you didn’t turn her over in the first place. Aren’t  _ your _ people investigating that little pickle, Guard-Captain? Any leads?” Varric asked.

Aveline set her jaw and counted to ten before answering, “Yes. It’s on my list. I’m  _ working _ on it.”

Isabela tutted. “Poor mannish Aveline. Wound so tight she could eat coal and shit diamonds.”

Varric barked out a laugh and slapped a palm down on the table. “Not bad, Rivaini. I’m using that.” Still chuckling, he reached for parchment and a quill on a shelf behind him.

“Enough!” Aveline barked.

Varric set his quill down, looking appropriately chastised. “You know Aveline, you  _ could _ take the kid with you...maybe the fresh air will do her some good?”

“Or maybe the Dalish Keeper will know what language it is that young Hawke speaks,” Sebastian suggested. Aveline felt a stab of irritation once Isabela shrugged in agreement.

Fenris brushed a thumb over his lip as he looked down and considered. “It’s true. The elves might know something that could help.”

Varric grinned in triumph. He opened his palms, “See? Two birds, one Sundermount!”

“Two  _ Hawkes _ , one stone?” Isabela asked, looking over to the dwarf. “Get it? Because…’Hawke’...and...bird?”

“Meh. Needs work,” Varric answered.

“Alright, then.” Aveline seethed, “ _ Fine _ . Hawke comes with  _ us _ .”

Sebastian peered inside the basket on the table with a slight frown on his face. “Ah, are there no more? I thought you said you would provide us breakfast…”

Aveline growled her irritation and turned away.

Isabela pointed at Hawke. “She ate it.”

“Oh.” Sebastian looked crestfallen.

Varric chuckled, “Where’s that sense of chantry-charity, Choirboy? She is, after all, a girl in peril.”

“One Hawke!” Isabela crowed. “Two sandwiches!”


End file.
